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Brian Byrne Poem
4 letters can describe us all
Sane, Slim, True, Tall
ironic and solemn
Your 4 letters Will change
Love. Hate.
Here. Gone.
simplistic and short
yet complex and infinite
Baby to Wife
Wife to Mama
This is Your
Four lettered Word
pasted within Your incredulous Mind
Your 4 letters.
even you Will Hide.
****. Spic. Tard. Twit.
oh no! no, no one can Know.
Hide. Hide. Hide.
no one Shall Know my Most
precious Word
ridiculed and cursed
ashamed and misunderstood
Hide From Your True Self
Hide From That
Four lettered Word
in the end our 4 letters Will all be the Same
no one can escape From This
villainous Word
It lingers the longest
seared swiftly on the Soul
This
Foul Four lettered Word
cursed Upon us all
is
Dead.
Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2015
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Brian Byrne Poem
Daisy.
there she lay
planted beneath the soft, brittle earth
I remember picking you
no roses or tulips
just Daisy.
I was the gardener—
your gardener
what now shall I water
I cry in hopes my tears
will make you sprout
come out of your flowerbed
white and pure
yellow and cheery
green and new
I knew you were wilting
I saw you lose your petals
your eyes lost their vibrant glow
small and feeble
easily carried by the wind
you died within my gloves
now you are back where you began
the dark, eerie ground
but this time
Daisy.
you won’t grow
Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2015
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Brian Byrne Poem
Floods and fires, beware.
The time is ticking till all will despair.
The blood boils through my icy veins,
As she pours down through acidic rains.
“It won’t happen, it never will come.”
That’s what they said before she won.
But now she is back, more vengeful than ever,
reaping and sowing all for her pleasure.
She warned us once, she warned us twice.
She warned us all we’d pay the price.
But we played dumb and we played blind.
We hid behind our incredulous mind.
Those who heeded the truth were pained,
For all of their sacrifice went unnamed.
Their stout hearts warned us so,
But the price of Life is all that we know.
We murdered her children, we enslaved her kin.
We did all that we could to ensure we would win.
Our greed and our hunger were the ones that steered,
And that is exactly why she is now here.
Our Mother does love us, Our Mother does care.
But we’re making our Mother more and more bare.
We ripped out her branches, and burned all her leaves.
But the fire we bore released all her seeds.
They grew with a ferocity far greater than known,
And slowly her saplings claimed all that we own.
She did not die, she never will.
It is only us that come and go still.
So open your eyes and open your heart,
for you’ll never know when the light will go dark.
…to better days.
Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2018
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Brian Byrne Poem
The fresh, melodic air felt cool against my skin,
kissing the tips of my fingers, the back of my neck, even the tiny spaces between my toes.
A whirling, blissful rush of chilled waves rushed around me.
I could breathe, and with each breath I tasted the succulent, promising flavor of hope, love, and serenity.
Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2018
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Brian Byrne Poem
Nothing changes, you know.
The weather I mean.
Its just like any other spring day.
Sunny, green, full of life.
I imagined it being much different.
I thought I would wake up feeling weak, weak in the bones.
But no. I felt, honestly, better than I have in a while.
There was not hint from the god damn weather.
In Shakespearean writings there is always weather to foreshadow a terrible event.
Foreshadowing a tragedy.
A hurricane. Tornado. Even just a good ole’ storm!
But no. You gave me nothing but false hope.
The birds were chirping,
Louder than ever.
As if they were mocking me,
Laughing at my naivety.
Even Odysseus needed a storm to tell him he was in harms way.
No one told me I would feel like this.
No one told me I would feel dead,
Dead on the inside.
In my advanced literature class,
They say to use the weather to depict the scene.
Use a sunny day when someone feels..
Rejuvenated.
Well that’s irony at its finest, right?
I’m far from rejuvenated.
In fact I feel like I'm withering into nothing,
Nothing but pure misery.
So, God, next time,
When you want to pull a “prank” like this,
Please have the curtesy to send
Bad weather.
Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2015
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Brian Byrne Poem
A boy. Short. He goes to school and cowardly hides behind every corner, scouting out what lurks behind the next turn. Always shoved and disregarded, he seemed to have no friends. He was bullied everyday by this monster. Someone who terrorized him since day one. “Why me?” was his battle cry, just before every black eye.
A boy. Alone. He was adored at school. A big jock. He hated his life, his choices. He picked on this kid, a rather small kid, who was simply pathetic. He would catch glimpses of him, cowering behind corners, and hiding in bathroom stalls. It was this kid that made him popular. He did not hate this him, but simply saw him as an stress reliever. Anger reliever. He was praised at school, abused at home. School was his safe haven; his home away form home, but no one knew what truly went on behind that strong, muscular smile. Divorce. Abuse. Shame. His mother was a prostitute, sold every part of her just to manage to keep him alive. His father was a drunk. Abused every inch of him to relieve him of his intoxicated wounds.
A mom. A prostitute. As a little girl she was very bright. Did well in school, and even managed to get into a good college. It wasn’t until that one night she mad a stupid mistake. It was one of those fraternity parties. “All the cool kids went, right?” She would tell her self. That’s all it took. One kid. One rufie. One sip. Next thing she knew she was pregnant. She dropped out of college. Told her boyfriend it was his kid. Got married. And had a beautiful baby boy. It took five years until she told her husband the truth. The truth about the conception. He left. She was alone, receiving no support. No money. It took her one month until she found herself in the back of a strangers car in an alley way for $200.
A frat boy. A stupid hazing ritual. “Host a party. Drug a girl. Have sex.” Only he made a mistake. He got drunk. Too drunk. He had no control over his actions. The demon residing within him took over, raped a girl, and impregnated her with what ruined her dreams, his dreams. In frustration he went to get fresh air. And made one more stupid mistake. He was conscious of what he did, and knew he could not live with his mistake. Police found him hung from the fraternity balcony the next morning.
This is in dedication to all those who suffered from something that was no in there control.
Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2015
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Brian Byrne Poem
This poem is dedicated to my mom.
A mama robin was granted a divine gift
And she began to form her new precious jewels,
Within herself.
The pain she was in while carrying these marbles,
Oh how burdensome they must have been.
But no.
She did not complain,
But instead rejoiced over her incubated prizes
Soon after conception she laid her bright blue eggs,
Fawning over the glorious miracle she birthed
She prepared for when they would wake
A busy fourteen days of enlarging her home and scouting for food.
She would spend most of those days plump on her prized possessions
Providing warmth.
Her children awoke from their slumber.
Tears filled her eyes as she saw their precious faces.
As the years went on her baby birds began to grow.
She knew they would all leave the nest someday,
But she never expected it to come so fast.
“Mama. Why do you love me?”
asked one of her little sons.
“Why? Well that’s a silly question.”
“Why mama?”
“Because hun, you give me a new reason every day.”
“I love you too, mama”
That feeling she got every time she looked at her kids
Was something so supernatural,
So gentle.
Her love for them was never ending
Never once did she complain.
Never once did she have regrets.
Yet she sacrificed so much.
That mama robin grew old,
And after bearing ten beautiful birds,
She never once left their side.
She sacrificed her dreams for her children,
And realized her true dream
Was becoming a mama,
A mama bird.
Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2015
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Brian Byrne Poem
Friskily frolicking I call it.
I don’t “play”
I friskily frolic.
Friskily frolic from far off field.
Far off field I will friskily frolic.
To and from
and back and forth
Friskily frolic for that flying fungo
Forever and all
I will friskily frolic
Friskily frolic when I play ball.
Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2015
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Brian Byrne Poem
I was afraid.
The morsel of fear laid upon my finger
It laughed at my dismay
It was quick.
Leaping from my hand
To my carnivorous cave
It reminded me of home.
My moms warm garlic
mashed potatoes
Dancing around
Swirling with such soothing grace
It was peaceful, calming
It tasted like a buttery roll
A divine gift from the gods
Which fell gracefully upon my tongue
It timorously tumbled down my throat
Feebly and weak
I conquered it.
Then it sank its sharp fangs into my gullet
Causing my nostrils to flair
And my eyes to water
Its taste was deceiving
Mimicking its appearance
It was evil.
It thrashed around
and slowly finished sliding down my throat
But it was gone.
I rejoiced over the demise of my foe.
I conquered the unconquerable.
Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2015
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Brian Byrne Poem
The vast array of colored lights illuminated the jovial faces of the youthful teens
As Ms. Durmstrang antiquely waltzed with Mr. Chestwood.
I sat alone as I watched my velvet red date swiftly fly through the crowd,
being swept off her feet from every well-dressed, cordial gentlemen.
The cushioned chair was soft, though.
It provided me with all the comfort and support I needed.
I didn’t care that she left,
I didn’t care that my feeble heart was shattered once again.
So I left.
“She can find her own ride home,” was a mantra of mine on the way to the car.
I sat for awhile.
I don’t know why, but I did.
A strong aroma of roses plagued my nose,
Swelling up from my blood-red boutonniere.
The blood-red boutonniere Valerie deceived me with.
“Why am I crying? I never cry.”
I drove home before my emotions could consume me further,
listening to melodic tunes to calm my inner most concerns.
When I arrived home it was nearly midnight,
and right above me were thousands of stars mocking me with their vibrant glow.
All the stars, nestled in the ambient twilight, sitting, staring.
“Shut up!” I screamed as insanity pumped vigorously through
my veins.
The brown hue of my eyes were flooded with fiery rancor.
I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t take the pressure.
I couldn’t take the cold-heartedness.
I couldn’t take the aching.
I couldn’t take being mocked.
I couldn’t take being, being
Used.
Used for my father’s money,
Used as a punching bag,
Used for my empathetic ways,
Used for my unwavering ability to never say no.
I sat in the dew covered grass, illumed by the pale moonlight,
and as I gazed into the endless eyes of the sky, I became empowered.
Perhaps with my own fear, or eccentric thoughts, but I felt electric.
“No!” I screamed.
“I said no! I will not go to prom with you!
No, I hate football!
No, you cannot punch me!
No, I don’t drink!
No, dad, you cannot hit me!
No, mom, you cannot get wasted tonight!
No, God, you cannot keep me here any longer!
No. No.”
I did it you know.
I stayed true to my word.
I did it.
Rusted Steel,
I said no to life.
Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2016
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